undone everything I had started to accomplish, and the drunken old man had instantly reverted back to his fantasy world.
“Sure,” I said. “Can I tell her your name?”
“Name?” He looked back at me with a puzzled frown.
“Yes sir, your name. Can I tell Miz Watson your name?”
A wide grin spread across his face, and he began clapping his hands together as best he could with the hardened steel restraints still encircling his wrists.
“Puddin ‘n’ Tain,” he giggled suddenly. “Puddin ‘n’ Tain, thas’ my name, ask me agin an I’ll tell ya’ the same!”
I simply turned and walked out of the room, leaving the old man to gleefully chant a new rhyme. Before the door shut, we heard the attorney angrily spit a demand after us, “I want someone in here to get these handcuffs off my client!”
“Fuckin’ idealistic little snot-nosed bastard.” Ben voiced his deprecating slur about the young public defender as he drove his doubled fist into his open palm. The impact elicited a loud pop that echoed seemingly forever down the long tiled hallway. “Sonofabitch pro’bly just passed the bar last week.”
“I hate to play devil’s advocate here,” I offered as we continued down the corridor. I was forced to increase my pace in order to keep up with my friend’s long, angry strides. “But, be that as it may, he has a point. That old man in there is far too inebriated to make accurate judgments at the moment. You saw that for yourself. Fact is he might not even be mentally capable of making decisions that are in his own best interest, period.”
“Maybe so, but you were beginnin’ ta’ get through to him, weren’t ya’?” It was as much a statement as a question.
“He appeared to be starting to regress back to that night, but I can’t tell you how much was fantasy and how much was reality.”
We slowed and rounded a corner then came to a halt before a metal door. Gouges and chips littered the grey, semi-gloss finish, forming a mottled background for uneven, faded letters across its face that read ‘STAIRS.’ Above the door an exit sign glowed dully.
Ben rested one hand on the doorknob and then jerked his free thumb over his shoulder toward the interview room we had just left. “But ya’ could’ve if ya’ hadn’t been interrupted by Perry Mason back there, am I right?”
“I can’t guarantee you that, but yes,” I nodded slightly, “it’s possible.”
“Well weren’t ya’ doin’ some of that hocus-pocus stuff to ‘im? You know, like when ya’ hypnotized me into seein’ that spider on my arm that time?” He was referring to a simplistic glamour I had used to demonstrate hypnosis to him months ago.
“Kind of. Not exactly like that, but along similar lines. Mainly I was just trying to help him remember.”
“Yeah, I thought so.” He levered the door open and motioned me through.
“In all honesty, he would probably be easier to hypnotize once he’s sobered up anyway,” I added as we started up the stairs. “It’s obvious that he already lives in a bit of a fantasy world, and the liquor was not only acting to perpetuate that but also to confuse him even more. An insane mind is not an easy one to read or affect.”
“Well, now that he’s got an attorney, I wouldn’t count on gettin’ that chance anytime soon. Jeez, white man, you’re gonna hafta teach me some of that hocus-pocus stuff one of these days.”
“Trust me, it’s not all that much fun.”
“I dunno… Bet that little Svengali deal is a blast at parties.”
“Believe me, Chief, sometimes the payback is a bitch. You just think it would be fun because right now you can’t feel the headache I have coming on.”
CHAPTER 17
Members of the Major Case Squad had broken off into various groups by the time we returned to the squad room on the upper floor; some in small teams discussing and exchanging ideas; some alone with telephones pressed purposefully to their ears; still others already out on the streets. No matter the particular duty being executed, though, they were all striving toward a singular purpose. To find a killer and stop him before anyone else could become a victim.
“The systems administrator of the Miller woman’s ISP is supposed to meet one of us at their office around noon,” the young detective named Chuck told us. “He says they keep their logs for ninety days, so we might have a good shot.”
The three of us were positioned around Ben’s desk in a small huddle of our own. My friend stood leaning against the piece of furniture with his hands thrust deep in his pockets and a dejected scowl glued to his angular features. The young detective had accosted us with the information almost as soon as we had come through the double metal and glass doors that served as an entryway to the squad room.
Ben nodded thoughtfully and cocked an eyebrow at me. “Tell me again what this is gonna do for us?”
I was just swallowing a handful of decomposing aspirin from a bottle that looked like it had been rolling around in the desk drawer for the past decade. I had tried to eyeball a measurement that looked like it might equal somewhere around three or four whole tablets, then finally gave up and simply filled my palm with the chunky granules. Hopefully the analgesic would kick in soon because a small troll with a ball peen hammer was already having a party inside my skull.
I chased the crumbling white pill remnants down with a quick gulp of fresh coffee that wasn’t much better than the hours old brew from earlier. The bitter tang of the medicine combined with the java leeched into the back of my tongue, and I had to bite back a reflexive gag.
“Whoever sent her the threatening e-mail,” I finally explained, setting my cup aside and forcing myself to ignore the throbbing in my temples, “would most likely have an e-mail address or a domain header embedded in it. If we can get that information, we should be able to trace it back to their service provider and get their billing information.”
“Unless the sender spoofed it,” Chuck volunteered.
“Yes, that’s true,” I agreed.
“Spoof?” Ben shot a puzzled look between us.
“Masked or somehow altered the address and domain,” the young detective detailed. “Kind of like electronically filing off a serial number.”
“Simply fuckin’ lovely.” Ben’s right hand went up to smooth back his hair as he muttered the curse.
“Even if it was spoofed, as long as they have the POP-three logs and the original piece of mail, the assigned routing number should at least allow us to track it to the mail server that delivered it originally,” I offered.
Chuck returned an animated nod. “True, but that’s all you’d get. No account info. And if you’re talking AOL or something, that’s a big goddamned ISP. That’s not even taking into account if it was sent through an open relay.”
“So what’s the story? There’s still a way ta’ track ‘im down even if he did this ‘spoofing’ thing, or no?” Ben queried.
“In theory, yes,” I told him. “I have to be honest though, I don’t think this guy is that computer savvy. In fact, we should consider the fact that the threatening e-mail might not have even come from him.”
“Whaddaya mean?” my friend asked.
“This kind of hate crime is not terribly uncommon,” I replied with a shrug. “The idea of taunting or degrading someone from behind the anonymity of the keyboard is terribly appealing to some. Unfortunately, there are a large number of individuals out there who are closed minded and hateful but are just a little too inhibited to step over the line in person. Hide them behind a computer monitor and a phone line and they suddenly change. The inhibitions disappear because they believe no one knows who they are, and they think that they can’t be caught.”
“So you’re sayin’ this kinda shit happens all the time?” Ben appealed.
